Ireland by horse wagon

Author: By Bill Strubbe, Globe Correspondent

Date: SUNDAY, November 1, 1998

Page: N10

Section: Travel

The rider, the bird that range

From cloud to tumbling cloud,

Minute by Minute they change

``Easter 1916,'' William Butler Yeats

TYNAGH, Ireland -- Because I'm a frustrated poet and wandering gypsy at heart, it was only natural that a horse-drawn caravan should be my chosen mode of transport to roam the Irish countryside, a place of such melancholic beauty -- both gentle and wild, enchanted and tragic -- that the muses can't help but be summoned forth to inspire the bards of the land: Joyce, Wilde, Synge, Shaw, Becket, and so many more. But, arguably, Ireland's preeminent bard is William Butler Yeats, landscaping his poems with scenes from the imposing terrain and sea, with the mythic tales, and with the Irish folk of the western counties where he spent his summers.

It was here in County Galway that our six-day journey along the quiet back roads began. I'd persuaded my Dublin friends Mary and Martin, and Mary's sister Anne to come along. Hitching up our horse, Blackie, to the wagon was an exacting business, and Michael Maloney, owner of Into the West, showed us how to properly do it. The bridle is always first on and last off; the padded collar and metal hames fit snug around the horse's neck; the housen and breeching sit on the horse's back and rear to hold up the caravan shafts attached by traces -- a lot to remember. But the following morning before we set off, Michael arrived to make sure all was exact, and by day three we felt confident and rigged Blackie up on our own. Catching the waning warmth of the sunniest September in memory, we were spoiled for the more characteristic Irish weather to follow.

In an ever-shifting kinetic tapestry, sunlight and shadows rolled across the patchwork of emerald fields appliqued with white sheep, castle ruins, and brightly trimmed cottages, all stitched together by stone walls. The intermittent showers were made magical by the reappearing rainbows arcing across dazzling blue and glowering gray. While leprechauns and pots of gold may be the stuff of fable, Irish rainbows most definitely are not.

Besides affording a slow-paced familiarity with the countryside, the caravans were also a great opportunity to meet the locals. Each afternoon, we pulled in for the night into a designated farm along the route, the 8-pound fee (about $12) covering pasturing Blackie, use of a shower and toilets, and in most places an invitation to tea. When we arrived at Cartron Farm in Ballinkill, the Garnsworthys were out, but their budding musician son, Sam, invited us in. Assured she wouldn't object, we requisitioned his mother's kitchen, whipping up apple tarts and blackberry scones for tea served by the fire. To Mary's great joy, Sam was also an ``X-Files'' fan, and she didn't have to miss the episode. The bleating of distant sheep accompanied my footsteps along the back road, up a hill, into a field, and through a copse of yew trees.

Over a stone wall rose the nine-foot standing stone of Carrickbraega, commanding a view all the way to the Shannon River. Dating from the Bronze Age to the early Christian era, stones like this one were used as boundary or grave markers, to denote ancient roadways, or used in ceremonial rites. Nearing the ancient relic, I slowed my pace and tentatively my fingers explored this brooding presence covered with lichens and moss. Slowly, with deliberation, I circumvented it three times, paying our due respects. The magic of the moment could hardly have been equaled when a rainbow materialized, its multicolored hues arching over the stone. Settling into the wagon for the night was a tight but cozy affair. Mary and Martin snuggled into the double bed-cum-dining table, and Anne slept in the bunk berth above my head. It was chilly, but linens and blankets were plentiful; the towels you supply yourself.

The wagons are also equipped with a four-burner stove, a selection of pots and dishes, a sink, two battery-operated lamps, and oats and brush for Blackie, who was groomed every morning before harnessing.

The next day, our route skirted through the Sliabh Aughty Hills, covered with turf bogs and unnatural-looking conifer forests planted as cash crops. We were told of a new, farsighted government program to help reestablish the hardwood forests that once graced the island. Landholders planting the slow-growing oaks, elms, and beech will never reap their harvest, but instead receive a yearly stipend for each tree that will be selectively felled many generations down the line.

The countryside was a smorgasbord of edible treats. The roadside brambles brimmed with blackberries, and we collected ample amounts to mix into yogurt and hot porridge, and to eat by the handful. Elderberries drooped over the stone walls, and Anne made syrup for the cinnamon-raisin griddle cakes. Crab apples were reduced to pinkish jelly, tart wild plums sliced for fruit salad, and the abundant sloe berries were gathered to make gin back in Dublin.

Chamomile and wild mint steeped in our tea, and dandelion greens and nasturtium flowers livened up a salad. A multitude of wild mushrooms and fungi poked up through forest and fields; many edible, some poisonous, others wildly hallucinogenic.

The highlight of our foraging efforts was the cache of prized chantrell mushrooms Martin discovered under the pines. The delicately scented orange fungi were thinly sliced, sauteed, and folded into a delicious omelette.

That night, our hosts, Paddy and Anne Heally, didn't mind me monopolizing the family bathroom as I soaked in the tub and finished Leon Uris's ``Redemption,'' sequel to the epic Irish novel ``Trinity.''

Later, we headed to the tavern in Kylebrack, where the Guinness was stout and the Celtic music robust; several fiddlers, a banjo player, guitarist, a tin whistler, and two spoon players filled the pub with revelry until closing. One man sang a hilarious spoof about tourists; an elderly woman borrowed a guitar and, in a gifted voice, led a sing-along; another woman sang in a tremulous a cappella.

In the middle of the night, we were jolted awake by the wagon rocking back and forth, the dishes flying off the shelves. Being a native Californian, I immediately thought, ``Earthquake!'' But this was Ireland. Did we accidentally ingest some hallucinogenic mushrooms? Or were Mary and Martin playing a prank? Getting up, I looked outside to see Blackie -- all 1,800 pounds of him -- rubbing his flanks against the wagon. Shooing him away, he later returned several times to repeat his seismic awakenings.

The rainy morning was redeemed when the Heallys, in a lull after the morning milking of their 40 cows, served us tea and traditional brown bread still warm from the oven.

The skies had cleared, and we basked with the sun in our face. As Blackie rounded a bend, up ahead a half-dozen trailers lined the roadside, clothes hanging on the fence and children playing in the grass. As we neared, several amused people returned our greetings and an older man said, ``I spent most of my life living in a wagon similar to yours. We had a small stove in the corner to keep it warm. There were eight of us living together in one wagon.'' And we thought four was a crowd!

These were the Travelers -- folks who, as recently as 15 years ago, roamed Ireland in horse wagons. Once known as Tinkers (because of their skills in working with tin and metals, though now a term of derision), they are often compared to the Romanies of Europe. Their itinerant lifestyles are similar, but they are neither racially nor linguistically related to gypsies. The Travelers speak a language called Cant, Gammon, or Shelta, which contains many Irish elements.

If you've ever cherished a Yeats poem, then Thoor Ballylee, the 16th-century tower house where he and his family summered for 12 years, will be certain to delight. Anne and I hitchhiked (still common in Ireland) the 12 or so miles to the Norman keep near Gort in County Galway that inspired his works of ``The Tower Poems'' and ``The Winding Stair,'' the ancient passageway spiraling through the rooms to the roof commanding a splendid view.

Defiantly independent County Galway helped lead the agitation for home rule in the early decades of this century, and Coole House, owned by dramatist Lady Augusta Gregory, helped cradle the Gaelic League and the Literary Renaissance. The house was demolished in 1941, but in the midst of the walled garden still grows the famous copper beech carved with autographs by literary greats, among them John Masefield, W. B. Yeats, Sean O'Casey, George Bernard Shaw, and Violet Martin Ross. A sign points the way to the lake of swans immortalized by Yeats.

The trees are in their autumn beauty

The woodland paths are dry

Under the October twilight the water

Mirrors a still sky;

Upon the brimming water among the stones

Are nine-and-fifty swans.

-- The Wild Swans at Coole

Along the caravan route, we explored numerous romantic ruins of 15th- and 16th-century Norman tower houses replete with turrets and slitted windows. Many castles, protected by the Office of Public Works, are open to the public; others are dangerous because of crumbling masonry.

Ten minutes from the Maloney's farm was Pallas Castle, built by the Burke family in the 1500s. Though the tower house was locked, we walked around the courtyard battlements at sunset. Longford Castle is now the residence of a herd of cattle, and Clondagoff Castle on a promontory overlooking Lough Derg is reputedly haunted with lights seen at night.

That night, we passed a few hours with the Lowry family in their dining room, the hub of the congenial farmstead. Four of their six children, two delightful foster boys the Lowrys hoped to adopt, an aunt and uncle, as well as one daughter's boyfriend all congregated here, telling stories and laughing. Their lilting accents often obscured the words, but it was clear that this was a close-knit family where love prevailed. Presiding over the family's comings and goings was grandmother, ensconced in her chair next to the old turf stove, which radiated warmth and comfort. Turf is as Irish as shamrocks and Guinness, and rural homes are still heated by sod. During the week, we saw families working their turbury (inherited turf plots), trucks hauling the dried bricks, sod stacks in sheds, and the omnipresent smoke wafting from chimneys; that cloying smell will forever conjure up Ireland in my mind.

Barrows and ring forts, defended farmsteads dating from the Iron Age to the Medieval period, consist of circular spaces surrounded by mounds or trenches. Most are left undisturbed by local farmers to avoid inciting the wrath of the faeries who reputedly hold sway over such haunts. The night before I returned to Dublin, looking up at the full moon sky, I saw something I'd never even heard of before: By the light cast by the full moon, a ghostly rainbow arched over the misty hills.

Being a lover of rainbows since childhood, I imagined it was a token especially for me, and recalled the lines from Yeats's ``To Ireland in the Coming Times'':

Man ever journeys on with them

After the red-rose-bordered hem.

Ah, faeries, dancing under the moon

A Druid land, a Druid tune!

Into the West, Pallas, Tynagh, County Galway, Ireland. Phone 353-0509-45147. Michael & Deirdre Maloney.

Irish Caravan Council, POB 4443, Dublin 7, Ireland.

Irish Tourism Board in New York -- (212) 418-0800, (800) 223-6470.

Irish Tourist Board in Dublin -- (01) 602-4000.